


Red Like the Sunset, Red Like Your Mind

by Amand_r



Category: Forever Knight, Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, M/M, Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:25:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she didn't answer, the beer gods volunteered what he would have called Way Too Much Information.  "He's a Scotsman.  You know how that is, with the sheep and the clans and the responsibility.  But he has these forearms, Janette, and they just...there's...well, he's straight.  You know.  With the..." He gave her an apologetic look.  "Sheep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Like the Sunset, Red Like Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ithidrial](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ithidrial).



> Prompt: Methos goes to the Raven for a quiet drink

When he sat at the bar, it was at a stool with empties on either side, in the corner, back against the wall, and facing the entrance. It wasn't as if he could actually see the entrance, really, but he could see if anyone would be moving quickly through the sea of bodies in his direction like a velociraptor in the tall grass.

So when the bartender lingered after bringing his beer, he volunteered the words: "I'm just here for a drink," a little too loudly, actually.

And he was only a third of the way through the glass when a busty blonde sauntered to him and pressed her nipples against his arm. He clenched the glass and wondered if it would break. "I'm just here for a drink."

"But you look so lone—"

He lifted his glass up to her face, touching her nose with the rim. "A. Drink," he droned.

"Oh, well, if you change your—"

"DRINK!" The blonde scurried, and strangely, the bartender brought another beer. Methos wondered if he knew anything about Irish sitcoms.

It had been a crazy night, and not for the first time he wondered if Mac would be mad at him. But if the auction house had expected him to sit there while they auctioned off Metella's good pottery set for a mere three thousand dollars, then they had another thing coming. Metella had been one of his favorite wives, okay they were all his favorite wives, but Metella had been something special. She had served him sea anemones on those plates. He'd bought the glaze from a crusty Spanish merchant himself, for her birthday.

He didn't want them back. He couldn't _afford_ them. But dammit, they deserved more than three thousand dollars.

"Miklos," a woman's voice said behind him, and he started for a moment. No way.

The bartender, Miklos of course, set a glass of red wine on the bar and a gloved hand slid past Methos's left shoulder to pluck it from the counter before the rest of the body came into view and settled on the stool next to him.

"Janette."

"Benjamin."

"It's Adam now."

"Why do you change your name so much?"

"How do you get away with never changing yours?"

Janette smiled. "I fly under the radar."

He shook his head. His beer was gone, and that was a fucking travesty. All was well, though, he thought as he traded the empty for the full, and Miklos swept the glass from the bar and under the tap. That was fantastic service. He dumped a handful of Toonies on the bar. It felt like tipping a dealer in poker chips.

Janette swept her black hair from her eyes and sighed. "Why are you here?" She frowned. "You're not going to trash my place, are you?"

He smiled. "Would I do that to you?" he asked, in his sweetest tone. Or the sweetest tone he could manage sober. The blonde he'd yelled at earlier glared at Janette and gave him a pouty face. He waggled the bottom of his glass at her.

Janette wasn't swayed. "Baton Rouge, 1856. What _was_ it that went up in flames?" She quirked an eyebrow.

Oh. That. "Well," he drawled, "you know what they say about good sex."

"I think that was headless sex."

He snorted. "She wasn't headless _then_ , just after." He gestured with the glass. "You know, after your girl tried to take my head post coitus."

Janette sighed and sat back against the back of the stool. "I guess I can't fault you there. But you did choose to sleep with her."

He had nothing to say to that, because he _had_ slept with Sabrina the teenage bitch, and well, she'd been very immortal, and very old, and was now very headless and very dead, and to this day he sometimes liked to ogle frilly pink dresses for no good fucking reason.

"I'd like to say that she got her revenge," he said faintly, knowing she'd catch it even in this noise.

They sat in silence, but it wasn't really silence, because the music in this place was deafening. He wondered if Janette had any control over the DJ, like hypnotic control, because he really wished that they could turn the sound down just a bit. Or maybe he was getting old.

He didn't usually snort beer up his nose at his own internal monologue. Then again he didn't usually storm auction houses and break ancient Roman pottery either. Oh god, Mac was going to kill him.

Janette ran a finger down his forearm. "Are you with anyone?" Right to the point, that one.

"Yes, and no." He was less right to the point. "I was, but now I'm slightly on the lam." He drained his glass. The drunken lam, even. He had really loved Metella. Enough that he deserved to get rip roaring drunk after confronting her plates. She would have thought that was very funny. Then she might have given him a blowjob. He sized up Janette and reached for the next glass.

Janette wasn't stupid or dense. Her smile curved into that Mona Lisa thing that some women could do, and she leaned back. Her cleavage was, well it was bloody _fantastic_. "On the lam?"

He was going to just make a sheep joke, but instead, he relayed the tale of the pottery, and the auctioneer, and the four security guards, and the shattered plates. "Things were just about to start to get crazy-go-nuts," Methos finally said into his beer. "Really, I bailed."

Janette smiled. "There were police?"

"In uniforms, with batons." Methos sighed. "I miss the Royal Canadian Kilted Yaksmen. They were fun."

Janette grimaced. "Too forthright. Cleft chins. Not enough sin." Miklos refilled the glass of red in her hand. Methos tried to be nonchalant, but the novelty of vampires drinking in the open was still fresh.

"Oh but Boy Scouts are fun to corrupt, right?" he said softly. Mac was going to kill him. He wondered if he'd offered to pay for the plates. Methos wondered if they'd let him keep the broken pieces if he paid for them. He could really _work_ that ceramic glue.

He was going to ask her about Lucius, but he didn't have the strength really, to hear about it, and in fact, he'd been listening to AM radio earlier anyway. And he didn't ask about Nicholas because frankly he didn't care. "Are you alone here?"

Janette gave him that eye, the one that meant that he was on his own. "Are you alone here?"

He shrugged, draining the next glass. The veal he'd had for dinner was far enough into him that the beer was working its magic with exceptional speed. "We covered that." When she didn't answer, the beer gods volunteered what he would have called Way Too Much Information. "He's a Scotsman. You know how that is, with the sheep and the clans and the responsibility. But he has these forearms, Janette, and they just...there's...well, he's straight. You know. With the..." He gave her an apologetic look. "Sheep."

"Ah."

Now he _had_ to say something, but he wasn't sure, and the music was reaching sonic levels; he looked at Janette's glass and saw the red in it, and it almost killed him. They made glaze from blood in some places didn't they? Maybe once? Because the glaze he'd bought for Metella had been kind of clear when he'd mixed it for her before going off to the Senate, and when he'd come back those plates had been ruby red in the sun.

"I need some ceramic glue," he said suddenly, trying to stand but deciding just to slouch onto the bar and lay his head on his arms. "And maybe a couple thousand dollars." And as an afterthought: "Canadian."

Janette laid her chin on his elbow until her face was inches from his. Her lips were red red red, and they were kind of slick, and he imagined filthy dirty things that actually merited a shower after just thinking them; there was so much paint in the mental picture, he needed psychological turpentine. Beer was good mental paint stripper.

"Won't your Scottish Boy Scout take care of that?" she said in a low voice. "With the sheep and the money and the plates?" There was a smile in her voice that belied concern. Well, serious concern.

He closed his eyes and sat up. "It's just that he's…" he drifted off, eyes unfocusing. Janette actually looked behind her for someone, before turning back and laying a hand on his arm.

"Is it another—are you smiling?"

"Is this...is this a techno dance version of 'Mack the Knife'?"

She tilted her head to the side for a second before frowning. "Oui."

He slammed his empty glass on the table. "That's it. It's official. I have finally heard everything." Miklos replaced his empty and he considered kissing him. No, that wouldn't go over well.

Janette fingered his tie. Oh that's right, his tie, as in he was wearing one. "Heard everything?" she whispered, bringing her lips close enough to his ear that he could hear it, a little whisper of sex and French and blood and...woo.

"Well..." he capitulated. "Maybe not _that_..."

Her hand was light enough that he could barely feel it when she pulled him from his stool and towards the back room. "I should hope not."

END


End file.
